


sleeping with the light on

by leadbitter



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Talks At Midnight Are Revelatory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 17:08:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20474585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leadbitter/pseuds/leadbitter
Summary: It creeps back in at times like this, Tom sitting in his stuffy room thinking about the way Jonno looked in the changing room, brown skin flushed and sat under Tom’s peg, looking up at him under long lashes. Tom had half-glared down at him, arms crossed in mock annoyance, what do you think you’re doing eh? But it was void and his voice was so fond that Tom cringed internally.





	sleeping with the light on

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: this is a work of fiction and not intented to represent or speculate on the real lives of any person, only using their likeness to write a story.

Tom opens his eyes slowly, feeling like they’ve been glued together, blinking into darkness. The clock on his bedside table glows red, 14:30. His duvet feels heavy and hot on his body and when he moves to shift it, he remembers his aching limbs. Remembers last afternoon. 

  
  


It’s a hard fought win, eleven lads battling their hearts out under the Bristol sky and a roaring crowd baying for the blood of one they once called their own.

Alfie took care of that one, a slip of the tongue and muttered words into the ear of Taylor was enough to get him booked. He hurried off not 15 minutes later in the steadiest walk of an injured man that Tom had ever seen. Alfie grinned across the line at him, white teeth bared and his stubble so blond that it was hardly there. Tom gave him a look back, not quite a smile, but something. A look he hoped conveyed the sudden settled feeling in the pit of his stomach, like now that’s one pressure released. Tom’s not sure that they would’ve been forgiven if they had let Taylor score on them, not sure Alfie would’ve forgiven himself either. 

The day was hot, the sun beaming rays that itch under Tom’s skin, burning freckles onto his face. It’s so hot he can barely stand it,  _ they _ can barely stand it. The one thing Rovers and Oxford players have in common, sweltered by the fucking English summer that is as unpredictable as it wants to be.

On 75 minutes, Tom’s hands started to shake and he knew his legs would follow swiftly after. The pitch looked like a comfort. A green carpet that would welcome Tom’s aching limbs with open arms. He’s half tempted to collapse right there and maybe the bollocking Tony would give him might not be too painful. That says it all really, because Tony can be fucking brutal when he wants to be. Say what you like, but he leads the backline like he’s about to ride them into a bloody warzone all whilst never undermining Ollie’s captaincy. Tom’s not entirely sure how he manages it to be honest. 

It’s a blessed relief when Nicho slots the ball beneath the keeper. Suddenly there was breathing room, 3-1 to the good, and Tom felt revitalised, like a bucket of ice water has been tipped over him. He slung his arm across Nicho’s shoulders on the walk back to the kick off, told him he’s brilliant. He didn’t say that he’s just saved the team from their centre half fainting from heat exhaustion 15 minutes from time; he didn’t need to.

The final whistle cut through Tom’s thoughts of -  _ come on, come on, just whack it Luke  _ \- and he did collapse then, sees another five lads doing the same thing as he landed softly on his back. Tom shut his eyes, let the jubilant jeer from the crowd wash over into a chorus of Goodnight Irene in his mind. Tom can’t claim to understand the song, or why all these people sing it, but it’s soothing.  _ I’ll see you in my dreams.  _ It’s love that, isn’t it? Saying goodnight, falling into soft pillows and a thick duvet and waking up in a dream where your lover is right beside you, there in all walks of life. Constant. Unending, undying.

  
  


Tom pushes his sheets off and twists so he’s sitting on the edge of his bed. Sighing and rubbing his hand through his hair and straining his ears for any sounds in the next bedroom. Jonno’s bedroom. Just the soft tick of the clock and the noise of car engines on the M32. 

  
  


In the changing room, they took turns in the ice bath. Josh and Luke and Ed first, then Tony and Abs and Jaaks; cycles of threes submerging themselves in freezing water for 2 minutes and dripping water across the room in search of a towel.

Tom went in last, which he secretly thought was unfair considering he played the whole 90 but he’s not one to complain so he slip himself into the water, grimacing and tensing until he’s in properly. He relaxed then, tipped his head back and closed his eyes.

“Are you gonna faint Tommy? You look like you might faint you know,” Jonson’s voice was as rough as it was clear and the sound of it forced the corner of Tom’s mouth to twitch into a half smile. “I won’t be able to save you if you drown there. I don’t know CPR.”

Ollie chuckled lightly and the vibrations through the water forced to Tom to open his eyes. He peered across the bath at Jonno from under his eyelashes. 

“I’m sure someone here does,” Tom replied hoarsely, rough from shouting and the heat. “No one’s gonna let me die.”

“You better hope so,” Jonson said through laughter. “You’re too good to die on us now.”

Tom was too tired to be embarrassed by the compliment and too dazed to accept it, so he just murmured, “Don’t want to die either Jonno.”

  
  


For the time being, Jonno’s spare room is Tom’s home. Back in Coventry, Jonson saying  _ c’mon then, you’ll stay with me won’t you, _ and Tom isn’t sure he even had a choice in the matter, like it would’ve made a difference. Jonson had helped him move in his stuff: books with smooth spines -  _ fucks sake Tommy, why have you got all these if don’t read them? _ \- and stupid amounts of white t-shirt’s and little collectibles from gift shops on holiday. Things that Jonson made fun of him for, the dimple on the left side of his face deepening as he grins, like a map marker. Drawing Tom in like a bee to pollen. 

Tom has always known Jonson was attractive but he’s firmly kept it in the  _ objective observation  _ section of his brain. It’s creeps back in at times like this, Tom sitting in his stuffy room thinking about the way Jonno looked in the changing room, brown skin flushed and sat under Tom’s peg, looking up at him under long lashes. Tom had half-glared down at him, arms crossed in mock annoyance,  _ what do you think you’re doing eh?  _ But it was void and his voice was so fond that Tom cringed internally. And again, when they are on the training pitch and he is practising free kicks. Determination taking physical shape through furrowed brows and narrowed eyes, calculating the angle needed to curve over the wall. Tom stopped in the middle of his drill to watch him, earning him a slap round the back of the head from Tony. He twists Tom up like a toy soldier, marching to his beat and Tom cannot stop following him.

Tom lugs himself out of his room and pauses in front of Jonson’s door. If he strains enough he thinks he can hear Jonno’s soft breathing. He pulls away, suddenly feeling like a voyeur, and continues down the stairs, hands stroking the walls on the way down, wanting to anchor himself on- something. The world is quiet at this time of night and Tom feels like he is floating. 

Jonson’s house is not Tom’s. He feels like a burglar as he opens and shuts cupboards with no ambition, like he’s going through a strangers possessions. It’s not right, that he’s still here and hasn’t made any attempt to find somewhere else to live, to find his own place. Jonson’s too - not nice persay, maybe - tactful to tell him to leave and, Tom’s hopeful mind supplies, might not want him to go at all. Tom checks that there’s water in the kettle and flicks it on, hoping that the buzzing doesn’t wake Jonno. 

As Tom leans against the counter, stirring sugar into tea, he thinks about last night. The evening was just as hot as the afternoon, dry and unbearable. Jonson looked gorgeous in the late sun, orange casting a glow across his face. Tom had shut his eyes, head tipped back into relaxation except - the urge to look at Jonno, his arms, his hands, the tattoos on his neck, was too strong. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, gripped the neck of his bottle. The hot line of Jonson’s thigh pressed into his and Tom suppressed a shudder. Him and Jonno, here in Bristol. 

Tom opens the back door and sits on the step, cradling the mug with both hands. The moon is bright, casting down a white glow on the garden, turning the grass a sickly shade of grey. The shed in the corner of the garden stands ominously, shadows climbing the side of the wood. For all that it’s peaceful here, now, Tom feels jittery, like he’s trying to climb out of his own body. He stretches his legs out, bare feet scraping across cold patio tiles until the tips of his toes touch the grass, cold and wet. The house behind him is filled with  _ stuff _ \- oven, sink, sofa, beds - but Jonno isn’t. Well, he  _ is  _ but he’s asleep and he’s not  _ here _ , not yet.

Last night Tom had said one or two unsubtle things that had resulted in nothing, but now, head clear of a tipsy haze, causes a flood of embarrassment to rise to the surface. Something about Jonno’s smile or his thighs, the blurriness of the memory making it even worse, blood rushing to his head. Tom brings the back of his hand to his cheek, groaning quietly at the heat. He pushes his face into his knees, taking deep breaths as he tries to quell the rising panic that Jonno wasn’t as drunk as he was, that he remembers. It only starts to work when Tom sits back up and takes a large gulp of tea, relaxing into the soothing feeling of the hot liquid sliding down his throat.

  
  


Jonson appears, eventually, in joggers and a huge hoodie, so quietly that Tom doesn’t realise he’s there until he feels a hand rest on his head. He jumps and tilts his head up.

“Jonno,” Tom says, startled. His voice is still rough and he tries to clear.

“Good observational skills Tommy,” Jonson says with a grin, hand briefly threading through Tom’s hair - he suppresses a shiver - before removing it. “Budge up will you?”

He sits down next to Tom, shoulders brushing together. Heat blooms at the point of contact, even after Jonson pulls away to settle himself. He looks up at Tom with a half smile and a pensive look on his face. “You not cold? You’ve hardly got anything on you dafty.”

The bare skin of Tom’s leg presses against soft cotton in stark contrast. It can’t be later than 3 am. It won’t be long until they need to leave for training, 4 hours, 5 at a push. The boys flooding into the training ground, Ollie and Luke getting out of the same car, pushing and shoving each other all the way across the car park, as unsubtle as ever. Bees making the rounds in the hot summer sun, the great Southern sky stretching blue, far and wide. Tom will be knackered, he realises belatedly, running on no sleep and still exhausted after the sun sucked all the energy from his veins last afternoon.

Tom shakes his head softly, resting it against the inside frame of the door. “No. How d’you know I was up?”

Jonno chuckles. “I heard you open the door.”

“ _ That  _ woke you up?” Tom raises his eyebrows, then grins slightly as Jonson’s expression turns sheepish. “You were already awake, weren’t you?”

Jonson hums and looks down. “Couldn’t sleep,” he mumbles.

He looks soft like this, Tom thinks, bare feet and hood slung over his head. It feels like a punch in the gut, the rush of affection that hits him. He thinks he’s probably grinning ridiculously, but Jonno doesn’t mention it.

“So,” Jonson starts, shaking embarrassment off quickly. “You like my thighs yeah?”

“Oh Christ,” Tom mutters, his cheeks violently flushing. He pushes his head into his knees, not for the first time, groaning. Above him, Jonson laughs, a clear sound ringing out in the silent night. 

“Hey, hey,” Jonson soothes and Tom can hear the smile in his voice. “It’s alright Tommy.”

Tom squeezes his eyes shut briefly, then lifts his head so his cheek is resting on his knee, making eye contact with the plant pot on the patio next to Jonson’s legs. “Is it?”

“You look ridiculous.” Jonson says matter-of-factly. Tom realises, with face squashed against his legs and in just a t-shirt and shorts, that he probably does. He slowly straightens up, and fixes his eyes on the tree at the back of the garden. 

“Is it?” Tom repeats, keeping his voice light, forcing the anxiety out of it.

From the corner of his eye, Tom can see Jonson reaching out, feels his fingers lightly brush his jaw, coaxing Tom to turn his head. Tom swallows and follows the movement of Jonson’s hand. Jonson has a smile on his face so wide that Tom thinks his face might split soon.

“Yeah,” Jonson says earnestly, and Tom has a feeling he’s not just talking about his thighs. “It’s alright Tom.”

Jonson’s hand is still cupping his jaw, his thumb stroking the space under his eye where Tom knows there is a cluster of freckles. Jonson’s eyes are glittering and Tom is dizzy and idiotic and maybe in love.

“You’re ridiculous.” Jonson murmurs again, softer this time.

“Yeah, yeah - I am - ” Tom stumbles breathlessly and Jonson kisses him then, presses him against the doorframe and  _ kisses  _ him, cutting out any remaining anxieties. A hard line pressed down the back and Tom reaches out with his hands to orientate himself, gripping the back of Jonson’s neck and stroking. All the oxygen sucked out of Tom’s lungs and the air around them,  _ gone _ , until Tom feels dizzy again, more than before. Jonson pulls away, flushed and happy. He looks beautiful and Tom feels boxed in and safe, and it’s a good feeling. It’s  _ good. _

Like the season before last. Coventry City in the Play off final and Tom didn’t play but Jonno did. Subbed on in the 51st minute, not long before Jordan scoring City’s second. Jonson had found Tom, later, in the corridor between the changing rooms at the home of football, back pressed against the wall and gulping air like he was trying to swallow the world around him. Jonson had brought him back down, through shaking hands and stroking the crease at the corner of Tom’s eyes with his thumb. Jonson asked  _ Does this happen a lot?  _ and Tom had shook his head and so they never spoke about it again. 

The thing is, it’s not like Tom needs looking after, but Jonson makes him go soft and small and it must look like he does. An arm around his shoulder, a hand in his hair, encouraging words, circling and wrapping around him like a warm blanket. Jonson’s younger than him so it should be unbalanced but it’s - not, not at all. It’s like the scars of old injuries just - disappear when he’s there, knitting themselves back together and softening his heart, right in the centre of him.

“D’you want to go back to bed?” Jonson murmurs against Tom’s fingers, kissing them lightly.

“Yeah- yeah, please,” Tom mumbles, overwhelmed and hot. “Me back hurts here.”

Jonson laughs with his whole body and it makes Tom’s hand shake. “C’mon Tommy, my mattress is far more comfy than this step.”

Tom’s stomach clenches with anticipation.

  
  


Jonson comes to a rest next to him, half covered by the duvet and Tom is staring at the ceiling telling Jonson that he’s always fancied him, really, just never thought anything would come of it. He isn’t beyond yearning for the odd straight lad but it always seems pointless to try and make a thing of it.

Jonson twists to push himself up on his elbow and rest his head on his hand, raises his eyebrows. “Oh yeah? I  _ knew  _ you fancied me!” 

Tom scoffs. “No you didn’t. I’m subtle mate.”

The soft yellow light from the lamp casts half shadows across Jonson’s broad shoulders. “No,” he admits with a slanted smile. “But i  _ could’ve _ guessed it. Loads of people fancy me. Why would you be different?”

“Well at least you’re modest about it,” Tom says, but he knows Jonson’s joking and he grins at him. 

Jonson makes a dismissive noise and kisses Tom’s neck. Tom suppresses an embarrassing groan - it would only bloat his ego. Especially when he kisses the space beneath his ear lobe, Jonson’s mouth so hot on his skin. 

“Don’t need to be modest about it,” Jonson murmurs against his throat, vibrations causing Tom to actually moan this time. “Not when it, ah, caused this.”

Tom laughs through gasps. “Shut up - shut up you- ” He pushes Jonson’s head back and presses his hand over his mouth. Jonno looks up, a devilish look in his eye, and pushes his tongue between Tom’s fingers until he lets go and kisses Tom’s lips instead, hard and purposeful. Jonson strokes Tom’s hair with his free hand, pushes it off his forehead-

“Oi - oi leave off the hair,” Tom shakes his hair out in mock annoyance. “I need a cut alright mate, yeah?”

Jonson laughs. “Nah, nah. I like your hair.” Then quieter. “It’s pretty. You’re pretty.”

Then it’s like how it always is when someone’s in your bed, trying to get as much of each other as humanly possible, pressing against one another like you’re trying to climb inside the other. Tom presses a sweaty kiss to Jonson’s temple, humming as Jonson’s hands slide underneath Tom’s shirt, mapping out every inch of Tom he can reach. Tom feels vulnerable like this, spread out underneath Jonson and susceptible to scrutiny, not knowing what someone might find attractive about you. 

“Hey,” Jonson murmurs against Tom’s collar, bravado replaced with a sort of gentleness. “This alright?”

Tom takes a second to breathe and looks down at Jonno, fondness filling empty space in his chest. He rubs a hand against Jonson’s hair aimlessly. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, keep going.”

  
  


Tom wakes up with a crick in his neck, sun pressing heavy against the back of his eyelids. His head is resting on Jonson’s chest, the soft thump of his heart a steady beat to focus his wandering mind, hand stroking his side. “Jonno?” he mumbles. 

Jonson shifts underneath him. Tom pokes his side tiredly. “Jonno.”

He groans. Tom watches as his eyes flutter open. “Wha’s the time?” Jonson whispers, hoarse and half-asleep.

Tom coughs as he blindly pats the surface of the side table for his phone. He squints at the screen, brightness too foreign.

“Ah, fuck.” Tom says as his eyes adjust.10:04.

“Late for training?” Jonson guesses, looking at Tom from under hooded eyes.

Tom hums an affirmation.

“Ah, fuck.”

  
  


They stumble into the training ground at 10:38, an hour late and there is no point trying to be discreet when the lads are already on the pitch and heads immediately turn when they pull up in the car park.

Tom gets out of the car slowly, making eye contact with Jonno over the roof. “Come on then,” he says, resigned to an onslaught on jeers. Jonson grins back at him.

Summer has hit North Bristol like a punch, sun flooding the grass and hitting it to glow. On the far side of the pitch, Graham is glancing over at them, arms crossed. That’s his disappointed stance, Tom realises with a grimace. He shifts his focus to the closer strip of grass - Ollie and Luke are laughing, borderline hysterically, at them, arms thrown around each other. 

“Proper subtle!” Luke yells across empty space.

_ God _ , Tom thinks, watching Luke turn to look at Ollie, soft and fond,  _ Fucking hypocrites everywhere. _

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> xx


End file.
